Then he stretched out his hand toward the revolver.
The sand came rattling down upon him, the thistles bent over creakingly and two figures appeared beside him.
“There’s time enough for that yet, Mr. Thorne,” said the man at whom the painter gazed up in bewilderment. And then this man took the revolver quietly from his hand and hid it in his own pocket.
Thorne pressed his teeth down on his lips until the blood came. He could not speak; he looked first at the stranger who had mastered him so completely, and then, in dazed astonishment, at the woman who had sunk down beside him in the sand, clasping his hand in both of hers.
“Adele! Adele! Why are you here?” he stammered finally.
“I want to be with you—in this hour,” she answered, looking at him with eyes of worship. “I want to be with my dear lady—to comfort her—to protect her when—when—”
“When they arrest me?” Thorne finished the sentence himself. Then turning to Muller he continued: “And that is why you are here?”
“Yes, Mr. Thorne. I have a warrant for your arrest in my pocket. But I think it will be unnecessary to make use of it in the customary official way through the authorities here. I see that you have written to both police stations—confessing your deed. This will amount to a voluntary giving up of yourself to the authorities, therefore all that is necessary is that I return with you in the same train which takes you to Vienna. But I must ask you for those two letters, for until you yourself give them to the police authorities in my presence, it is my duty to keep them.”
Muller had seldom found his official duty as difficult as it was now. His words came haltingly and great drops stood out on his forehead.
The painter rose from the sand and he too wiped his face, which was drawn in agony.